


Dear God

by Arlome



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Crack, F/M, Halloween, Knitting, Knitting for Satan, TDN Halloween challenge, The Devil needs tea, i know i'm surprised too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 08:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: "But who prays for Satan?"A bunch of knitting elderly Satanist witches, that's who!Or, how Lucifer got back from Hell.





	Dear God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sapphire1219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphire1219/gifts), [Violet-catsarelife](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Violet-catsarelife).

> For [violet-catsarelife](https://violet-catsarelife.tumblr.com/) and Sapphire1219 who asked for "But who prays for Satan" - Mark Twain. 
> 
> Major shout out to [Elleflies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleflies/pseuds/elleflies) who set me on the right path :)  
My undying thanks to my darling [NotOneLine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotOneLine/pseuds/NotOneLine) who made this readable.

It all started one afternoon in the last week of October, when Mrs. Bolkonski, aged 72, burst into her “Knitting for Satan” club’s Sunday meeting with alarming news.

“The Devil has gone back to Hell!” cried the distraught lady, brandishing her knitting needles like a battle axe. Four pairs of eyes regarded her with mild interest for a short while, after which, their owners returned to regard the haberdashery at hand.

“Calm down, Gytha,” said one of the women, her thick glasses sliding down her pointed nose. “You’ll give yourself an aneurysm.” 

“Don’t you tell me to calm down, Marge!” Mrs. Bolkonski muttered, and dropped into her waiting rocking chair. “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

Marge stopped knitting an oddly shaped woolly hat, placed it in her lap, and fixed her friend with a piercing gaze.

“Oh, I heard,” she intoned, her voice measured and infuriatingly cool. “Now, how would you know that?”

Gytha puffed her chest out and drew breath.

“As you know,” she started, hooked nose rising up in the air, “I babysit for Detective Decker!”

A chorus of groans washed over the living room of this week’s hostess of the club’s Sunday activities. They’ve all heard this tune before. Gytha Bolkonski always liked stuffing her relative proximity to the Devil in their faces.

“As I was saying,” the lady in question resumed talking just a little bit louder, as to drown out the protesting voices, “as I babysat darling Trixie, she told me that Mr. Morningstar has  _ gone back home _ , and that her mother is  _ very upset _ .”

To Gytha’s pleasure, this information seemed to get her friends’ attention.

“Oh no,“ said one, laying down her needles and rising from the sofa with some difficulty. “No, we can’t have that.”

“But he seemed so very happy here,” said another, sighing forlornly, “and so very much in love with that pretty detective!”

“He had to go back to his duties,” Gytha explained sorrowfully, and reached out for her bag, full of colourful yarn. Tonight was a night for knitting socks.

“What do you propose we do?” asked Marge, suddenly all intent and ambition, the fire in her eyes fierce and determined. “We cannot leave them to suffer.”

Gytha narrowed her eyes, going over all the spells and incantations that she had mastered over her years as a Satanist witch. Nothing particular came to mind.

A few moments later, sudden inspiration dawned upon her and turned to scheming.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline, “there’s always praying.”

***

“Dear, False God –“

“No, Marge, you can’t call him  _ False God _ to his face! You’re about to pray to him on his son’s behalf! Show some manners!”

“Alright!  _ Alright! –  _ hhmmmm _ –  _ Dear God, you don’t know us, we’re not part of your mindless horde of –“

_ “Marge!” _

_“_Right, sorry, old habits – Dear God, we know your son has been a naughty boy, we’re sure he’s sorry –“

“No, he isn’t!”

“Shut up, Carol.”

“Where was I? Oh, yes – Well, God, he is very miserable at the moment, and so is that nice detective who is so obviously in love with him, I mean,  _ please,  _ it’d take a blind idiot to _ –“ _

_ “Marge!” _

“I can’t help it, Gytha! I worry for the lad! You know what?! You do the praying!”

“Alright, I will! Give me that candle, Carol – wait? Do they even use candles in prayers?”

“Get on with it, Gytha; my arthritis is acting up!”

“Fine! Here we go.  _ Dear God _ –“

***

There was little finesse in ruling Hell. There were no balls, no diplomats to entertain. Most days nobody even seemed to stand on ceremony, anymore.

Lucifer sighed. He missed Los Angeles. He missed Earth. He missed –

Well, it didn’t matter. He’d rather not mope; it made his demons agitated and motherly.

The throne, high above the putrid atmosphere of his accursed realm, was his only sanctuary. There was silence and a grotesque sort of peace in the loneliness that embraced him like a lover as he reigned over his fetid kingdom. There, he could brood and think in stillness. There, he could really concentrate –

“Sire!” came the mighty bellow of one of his disloyal subjects, breaking the silence like a hefty sledgehammer. “You ‘ave a visit’r, Sire. One o’them feath’ry blokes!”

Lucifer closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten. As if Hell wasn’t Hellish enough.

Leaning over the edge of his throne, he shouted, “I’ll be right there!” and rose to leave.

It was probably Amenadiel, coming to plague him with new pictures of baby Charlie.

***

It wasn’t Amenadiel.

Lucifer entered his great hall and froze. 

The apparition - all golden feathers, and golden hair, and golden eyes, and golden fucking everything - stood awkwardly in the Devil’s domain and shuffled its feet.

“Lucifer,” the angel said, attempting a friendly smile, but hitting an indigestion-induced grimace instead. “It’s been so long, you – you look well, brother.”

“I always look well,” the Devil answered automatically, vain instincts kicking in. “Gabriel, to what do I owe this unpleasure? Not a social visit, I presume.”

Gabriel blushed and looked away, biting his lower lip. Lucifer narrowed his eyes.

“What does Father want?” he inquired sharply, fists clenching at his sides. He’s given up everything dear to him to come and do his duty, what could the Old Bastard possibly want now?

“Who says he wants anything?” his golden brother attempted innocently, the tips of his ears burning bright. “Perhaps I’m here to… take the waters.”

“What waters?” Lucifer droned sarcastically. “This is Hell, Gabe; not Bath. Well, come on, out with it – what’s so important that I’m graced by the holy presence of God’s Messenger?”

Gabriel winced at the Devil’s harsh tones and heaved, still somewhat reluctant to speak.

“Alright!” he cried, folding his arms over his golden robe. “There’s been a strange… occurrence.”

“What strange occurrence?” Lucifer demanded; then he blenched and took a step forward. “Is it Chloe? Is she – “

“She’s fine,” Gabriel cut in, palms upwards in a placating manner. “It has nothing to do with her. There’s been some praying, you see. For you.”

Lucifer blinked, the relief flooding through his system at learning of Chloe’s safety, replaced by rapidly growing confusion.

“For me?” he asked incredulously. “Surely you mean  _ to _ me?”

Gabriel shook his head emphatically.

“No, I meant  _ for _ you,” he insisted. “The prayers reached us yesterday and caused quite a stir in the Silver City. It was… well, it was unusual.”

_ “But who prays for Satan _ ?” Lucifer muttered, flabbergasted. Dear Mark would be delighted to hear that  _ somebody _ finally did.

“Pardon?” Gabriel asked, not quite catching his brother’s stammering. 

“Nothing,” Lucifer smiled weakly, shaking his head. “Well, who did the praying? Is it the spawn? Don’t keep me in suspense, brother!”

“It was a group of elderly women, Lucifer,” the other angel explained, his left cheek twitching slightly with the strain of repressing a grin. “Elderly Satanist witches, to be exact.”

“Elderly witches.”

“Elderly  _ Satanist _ witches, yes.”

Lucifer blinked. Gabriel allowed himself to smile sadly.

“They… worry about you, brother. Father was…. quite taken with their prayer.”

Rage crept up Lucifer’s throat, choking any specks of lingering sentimentality in his system.

“Oh, was he now?” he sneered, but Gabriel shook his head.

“This is an olive branch, Sam,” he said softly, and Lucifer’s face drained of colour at the use of his old nickname. If Gabriel noticed his brother’s reaction, he did nothing to indicate it. “I’m here to take your place for a while. Go, pay them a visit. I hear there’s a woollen hat in it for you.”

Lucifer started at Gabriel, mouth agape and eyes wide.

“Close your mouth, brother,” the angel smarted, “you’ll catch flies.”

The Devil blinked rapidly and looked away. After a while he asked, “And what of the Detective?”

Gabriel shrugged, attempting nonchalance. 

“Father turned a blind eye on your vacations on earth for millennia, brother,” he said, his eyebrows rising. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

The Lightbringer smiled.

***

Gytha Bolkonski opened her oven door and took out her famous pumpkin loaves. She always baked them for the “Knitting for Satan” club’s Wednesday Worship gathering in her house. She took extra care in baking them tonight.

The kitchen filled with the sweet smell of Cucurbitaceae and spices, giving the entire house a pleasant, Halloween-y feeling. Gytha smiled and place the cooling loaves on a platter, adding cream and jam and homemade custard; the ladies will be hungry, no doubt. Surely, worshiping Satan on an empty stomach was a sin?

“Can I pour you some tea, Gytha?” Carol asked timidly, as Mrs. Bolkonski entered the living room, carrying her tray of goods as carefully as if she was carrying a new-born. “I’ve made a mean pot of Earl Grey.”

“Don’t forget to add some brandy into it,” barked Marge from across the room, nose stuck in her knitting; her woollen hat seemed to have acquired extra appendages since their last meeting. Gytha approved; Satan’s horns must be kept warm, too.

“Yes,” she concurred, placing the loaded tray on the coffee table. “Medicinal.”

Something akin to a snort, disguised as a fit of coughing, could be heard across the room. Mrs. Bolkonski rose to her full height, which wasn’t much, and was just about to set the wayward sister straight, when the doorbell rang.

“Now, who can that be?” Carol wondered, rising from her seat at the table. “Are you expecting somebody, Gytha?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she replied, not a little bewildered and headed for the door.

Gytha Bolkonski was never the praying sort. It may have been due to her sceptical nature, it may have been due to her being a devout Satanist, and therefore not prone to invocating; Hell, it may have even been due to her having such bony knees. Whatever the reason, she was not one for beseeching. But as she stood in her doorway, aging heart close to bursting, she could only surmise that the one, lone prayer she’s ever uttered in her long life has been answered.

Lucifer Morningstar, dressed in a neat Armani suit, stood on her doorstep, grinning charmingly.

Behind her, Carol dropped her pot of tea.

“Ladies!” the Devil cried jovially. “I hear you’ve been talking to my Dad!”

***

“Can I offer you another piece of pie, Mr. Morningstar?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Carol dear; I won’t be able to fit into my trousers!”

The ladies preened and sighed delightedly. The Devil was such a gentleman. Marge poured him another cup of tea.

Covered in scarves and at least three woollen hats, Lucifer sat comfortably in Gytha’s rocking chair, holding a steaming cup of Earl Grey.

“Your tea is phenomenal, darling!” he exclaimed, making Carol blush in blessed pleasure. “I’ve not had such a fantastic cuppa since I visited dear Vicky!”

Gytha buttered a slice of pumpkin loaf and pressed it onto Satan.

“You’re too skinny, my boy,” she urged at his protests, “We must fatten you up a bit. And nobody says ‘no’ to my pumpkin loaf; not even the Devil.”

Lucifer winked at the old girl and took a salacious bite. Carol started fanning herself with her napkin.

The doorbell rang again, causing quite a stir among the occupants of the homey living room.

“My, Gytha, you’re quite popular today!” Marge quipped, taking a large gulp of tea. “Maybe God decided to drop by and taste your loaf, too.”

Mrs. Bolkonski rose to her feet graciously and smoothed the front of her cardigan and plain skirt.

“Well, if he did, he won’t be disappointed, I assure you,” she said haughtily and headed for the door, yanking on the knob slightly harder than necessary. 

A ten-year-old, dressed in a home-made costume of a murderous pumpkin, launched herself into the elderly lady’s arms.

“Mrs. Bolkonski!” the eager child cried, finally detaching herself from the woman. “We came to show you my costume on our way to trick-or-treating. Cool, isn’t it??”

“We’re sorry to interrupt,” said the mother sheepishly; inside the house, the Devil sat a little straighter in his seat. “But the little monster really wanted to stop by and show off her efforts.”

Gytha’s eyes shone with purpose.

“Not at all, my dear! Do come in!” she cried almost manically, gesturing the pair inside. “Trixie, I’ve made my famous loaves; how about a slice?”

“Yummmmmmm!” the child bellowed and charged towards the coffee table, only to divert her course once she noticed the wool covered figure in the rocking chair.

Lucifer had a second to lay down his tea things before a murderous pumpkin, issuing battle cries, landed in his lap.

“Lucifer!” the child shrieked in his ear, making him grimace. “You’re back!”

Gytha Bolkonski had the presence of mind to grasp Detective Decker’s elbow to prevent her from sliding to the floor.

“Carol!” Marge hissed urgently. “Medicinal!”

A cup of brandy with tea was pressed into the Detective’s shaking hands.

Lucifer rose from his chair, Trixie still attached to him.

Silence stretched. Five pairs of eyes eyeballed the pair with avid interest. 

“You’re back,” Detective Decker whispered, her voice shaky and full of emotions.

“I – I’m visiting,” the Devil stuttered, taking an impeded step forward, obstructed by wool and a clinging octopus-child. “Chloe, I – “

Gytha cleared her throat meaningfully, winking at Marge.

“Trixie, my dear,” she shrilled, beckoning for the reluctant child to come to her. “How about my friends and I will take you on your rounds, and let your mother and Mr. Morningstar have some time to catch up?”

“But –“ the child began, reluctantly sliding down Lucifer’s legs.

“Come along, Trixie!” Marge pipped in, rising from her chair determinedly. “Let’s see what’s the largest bowl Gytha has in her kitchen, so we can fill it all with candy!”

This got the eager child going. With an energised “Bye, mom!” cry, she flew out of the house, five meddling elderly Satanist witches in her wake, leaving the Devil and his Detective standing in loaded silence.

And if a few hours later, the merry, sugar-infused bunch came back to find the pair covered in wool and sucking face in Gytha’s favourite rocking chair - well, they didn’t really mind that much.

It was a Halloween Miracle, after all.

  
  
  
  



End file.
